


Light Glancing In Your Eyes

by Supreme_Thunder



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mild BDSM, Oneshot, just don't read it if you're not okay with darker themes, reference to prostitution, soumako angst team, tagging just to be safe, very mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 17:05:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6123518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Supreme_Thunder/pseuds/Supreme_Thunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sousuke is a Spartan warrior, and Makoto is the son of a disgraced Athenian.<br/>Their lives get tangled up together, lost in vengeance and war.<br/>How can love shine through such darkness? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>[This drabble is a birthday present for my partner in SouMako crime.<br/>I hope you like it bae <3.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light Glancing In Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AniFre101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AniFre101/gifts).



> This turned out to be something rather experimental.  
> Be cautioned. There are elements which can be construed as non-con at the end of the drabble.  
> The title is from a poem by Sappho.  
> 

 

 

The name of his father’s murderer was his first memory. A curse his mother spat out since he was old enough to understand curses.

Curses, yes.

And hatred too.

War was bred into his blood, instilled in his bones while he was still cocooned in the floating stillness of his mother’s womb.

And he was trained to fight, to kill. From the time he could stand on two feet, he was bred to be a soldier. A true  Spartan. His blood for his City, for his people.

His heart stone cold unless it beat for Sparta.

That is how it was.

That is how it should have been.

 

He should have forgotten the name.

He should have stopped thinking about slitting the throat of that name’s owner when his mother stopped spitting it out like a curse.

But he didn’t.

 

He dreamed and dreamed of spilling the red blood of the Athenian man who slid a steel blade into his father’s guts.

The man who made him fatherless before he had lived a full year in this world.

The man who was the only link he had left to his father.

That man’s name rankled inside his head like a demon’s voice.

_Tachibana._

_Tachibana._

_Tachibana._

 

So when he turned 18, Sousuke left his home and his Spartan pride behind.

He went hunting.

Sold himself to some Athenian nobleman.

A killer for hire.

Mercenary’s the word if you want to be technical about it.

With his dark looks, he easily passed for a faithless Macedonian.

 

And he went looking, asking, searching.

In the narrow alleys behind garishly-painted temples of gods and goddesses who had watched his father bleed to death.

Watched and done nothing.

A true son of Sparta, holding his guts in both hands, shitting himself on the battlefield, weeping for his wife and his newborn child whose face he had yet to see. The gods had just let him bleed, and shit himself, and cry.

A sordid death for a noble warrior.

Sousuke thought they had no honor, these Olympian deities.

So he took it upon himself to steal away the breath of the man who had stolen his father’s life.

He would find and kill Tachibana.

He would raze the Athenian’s house to the ground.

************

 

Sousuke should have trusted the gods and goddesses.

After all, his father always did right by them.  

Sacrifices, offerings, visits to the temple.

Maybe his mother knew all along.

Maybe she stopped cursing the name of her enemy because she already knew.

That he was long dead.

That Tachibana had already taken his own life.

 

Athenians shook their heads as they spoke their words:

_General Tachibana? He killed himself, don’t you know? Years ago._

_He was ostracized. But he couldn’t bear the dishonor of exile._

_Threw himself on his own sword, like the soldier he was._

_Honorable death, I say._

_Save your pity for the ones he left behind._

_Especially that poor boy of his._

_Ahhh, he was a promising lad. The eldest son. Just not in a way his father wanted._

_Such a pity._

So Tachibana was dead then.

And everything Sousuke had done, everything he had left behind.

It was for nothing.

He seethed with unspent anger.

He raged with bottled fury.

 

His father’s murderer was already a guest of Hades.

Tachibana’s wife had remarried, and his two younger children were claimed by an uncle living in the South. They no longer bore the Tachibana name.

And Sousuke didn’t want to ask himself how far he would go for his besmirched honor, his forsaken pride.  

 

But there was the son who remained in Athens.

The one who still answered to the Tachibana name.

The same age as Sousuke.

 

So Sousuke went around alehouses after dark, asking more questions.

Drunk Athenians love telling stories:

_Oh, that poor boy._

_No one wanted him after his father died, you know._

_And he was still too young to be a true citizen._

_His father couldn’t make a warrior out of him. Too meek._

_Not that he couldn’t use a sword. Just didn’t want to._

_Some nonsense about all life being scared._

_I heard he became disciple of that crazy preacher. The one who chose hemlock over exile._

_The boy’s father beat the shit out of him, you know._

_But he wouldn’t change his mind. Not that boy._

_Wanted to be a healer instead of a solider or a politician. Had the potential for it too._

_Sad, what happened._

 

And so Sousuke found his prey.

And his name was Makoto.

************

 

Makoto.

Angel-faced, green-eyed Makoto.

His fingers slid across the kithara strings like delicate apple blossoms carried off by a stray spring wind.

Sousuke paid a few coins at the door of the shabby brothel.

The room was quiet, rather dark at night.

A lamp on a wooden table.

A worn-out mat on the floor.

And a smiling boy with a kithara in his hands.

A sadly smiling boy with green eyes that sparkled in the lamplight.

His voice sweeter and sadder than the song of the sea in winter.

His face more beautiful than any sculpture of Aphrodite.

 

He sat before Sousuke, night after night, wearing a shift. Sheer and white.

It didn’t cover much.

Matching circlets of silver adorned his upper arms, set with green gems.

Gift from a happy patron probably.

 

Makoto smiled, and played, and sang.

Night after night after night.

And Sousuke toyed with a cup of cheap wine, drinking sparsely, watching, waiting.

For what?

He didn’t know anymore.

He could have wrapped his hands around the boy ‘s slim, ivory neck on the very first night.

He could have slit the boy’s throat with his sword.

He could have pushed Makoto’s legs apart and fucked him bloody.

And no one would have cared.

A few coins to the brothel’s master for silence.

 

But then the boy smiled at Sousuke.

Offered him a cup of wine.

Plied him with fresh grapes.

Smiled so sweetly, yet so sadly.

And sang like the sea in winter.

 

And Sousuke could do nothing but sit there.

As if entranced, stilled in time.

Unable to move, unable to think until the boy stopped singing.

 

Weeks turned to months.

Sousuke spent all his coin on Makoto.

He never said a word to Makoto.

He never laid a finger on Makoto.

Yet he felt bound to the beautiful boy.

 

What was it that Sousuke wanted?

 

His father’s murderer was long gone.

And this boy- this gentle, sad soul- Sousuke could not hurt him.

Then why didn’t he just leave?

Why did he feel compelled to return night after night after night?

What was holding him in Athens?

What was this spell that a pair of green eyes shining in lamplight had cast over his heart?

 

It couldn’t be love.

It just couldn’t.

 

So Sousuke stopped.

And it wasn’t so hard to stay away once he stopped.

He drowned himself in other boys, better wine.

And he thought it was over.

And he left Athens.

He went home, and he told lies to the Spartans, to his mother, to himself.

 

************

 

Makoto was afraid.

He was afraid of the teal-eyed man who wouldn’t speak.

He was afraid of the way this man toyed with his wine without drinking it.

He was afraid that this man would take what he wanted one night, and leave without looking back.

And Makoto trembled with fear under his silent gaze.

Night after night, Makoto waited.

Waited for a hand around his neck, a sword against his throat.

 

Makoto lay awake in his bed during the day, imagining what it would feel like.

He longed to feel this silent man’s heavy, war-worn hands forcing his soul out of his body.

He longed for a blade that would see his life ebb away.

But most of all, he longed to be taken.

To be ravaged and preyed upon by the man who said nothing.

Every night, Makoto prayed for an end.

Every night, he sang for the man who would not even speak his name.

Who would pay for a cheap cup of wine and an old song- and nothing more.

 

Until there was nothing to long for anymore.

Until the man with teal eyes and silent secrets stopped coming to hear Makoto sing.

And Makoto went back to opening his legs for drunken men who cared nothing for his songs.

 

 

************

There was war in the spring, after the snows melted.

Sparta marched on Athens.

Athens sent out her men to die.

Who remembers what caused it anymore.

Every man who was living then is now dust.

 

Sousuke, renowned for his skill with the sword, was at the helm of many skirmishes.

He was victorious every time.

Yet there was no joy in his heart, and no light in his eyes.

His fellow soldiers, their hearts drunk on youth and war and sex, tried in vain to cheer him.

Beautiful boys, rich wines, the newest songs.

Nothing worked.

 

They loved him, and worried for him.

They’d follow him all the way to the Underworld, they said.

He laughed, and said he didn’t deserve their loyalty.

They challenged him.

They asked him what he longed for above all else.

And sighed and whispered a name.  

An Athenian name.                            

A whore’s name.

What did they make of him now, Sousuke asked his friends.

Traitor to Sparta.

Mercenary.

Liar.

In love with the son of his father’s murderer.

Unwilling to lie with a woman and give Sparta more warriors.

 

Sousuke’s friends looked away from him then.

But it was not out of shame, or hatred, or betrayal.

They were all young still.

Some of them even read poetry.

A couple of them knew what it meant to love and not be loved back.

So they made their plans, and bided their time.

 

************

 

A truce was near, or so it was rumored around the encampment.

It was now or never.

Five Spartan men, dressed in Athenian garb, slipped away on silent feet.

Slipped away on a moonless night.

Athens slept.

She knew nothing of these thieves, who’d come to steal away one of her own.

 

************

 

It was a broken sandal.

That’s all it took.

Makoto had been called to play at a nobleman’s house, along with a few other boywhores and flutegirls from his brothel.

A lavish dinner for Athenian politicians while soldiers died playing war.

He had never understood the ways of rich men, even when he had been one of them.

 

Makoto bent down to fix the torn strap.

One of the flutegirls stopped and offered to give him company.

He laughed and waved her on.

 

He couldn’t fix it.

He gave up and took off the other sandal as well.

He’d walk back on bare feet.

Maybe he could just walk and walk and walk.

Down South or up North.

Maybe he’d find that silent man with teal-eyes again.

This time, Makoto would throw himself at the man’s feet.

To be killed, to be taken- anything the man wanted, Makoto would give willingly.

Anything, anything but this life and its filth and the same old songs he had to sing night after night after night.

 

Makoto didn’t sense that he was surrounded until it was too late.

Rough hands grabbed at him.

A piece of cloth muffled his mouth.

Blindfolded.

His kithara taken from his hand and tossed away.

 

Makoto wept.

But it was not for grief, or for fear.

And then his world vanished from him, and he fell into darkness.

 

************

 

Sousuke entered the tent with slumped shoulders.

His friends told him there was a gift waiting that would certainly make him smile.

Wondering how he would fight off the advances of yet another campfollowing prostitute, Sousuke approached the narrow bed.

 

The boy’s wrists were bound with rope, his mouth stuffed, his eyes covered.

His clothes were clearly torn off him.

Helpless, he writhed around naked.

Beads of sweat sparkled on his taut, slender body.

 

Sousuke didn’t need to remove the blindfold to know who the boy was.

With gentle hands, Sousuke caressed the boy’s body, parting his thighs, feeling the ripple of muscles under the boy’s smooth skin, rubbing his thumbs gently against the pinkish nubs on the boy’s chest.

Until he reached Makoto’s throat.

Sousuke’s fingers traced the outline of it, reaching across, feeling the choked-up breath hitching under the thin, porcelain skin of Makoto’s neck.

The boy stopped writhing around.

His body grew still, waiting.

 

The pressure around Makoto’s neck increased.

He back arched, as if he was overwhelmed with some long awaited pleasure.

One hand still gripping his throat, Sousuke reached another to pull out the cloth muffling Makoto’s mouth.

His breath came out ragged through parched lips.

Sousuke bent down, closing the distance between them.

His tongue traced Makoto’s plump lips, before sliding into his mouth.

Makoto’s tongue responded thirstily, drinking from Sousuke’s mouth as if were a goblet of iced water.

Sousuke firmed his hold on Makoto’s throat.

The boy gasped, choking even as his mouth was ravaged.

 

If this was death, Makoto would welcome it with open arms.

If this was the end, then he would rather be strangled by a kiss than pierced with a blade.

 

But then his breath returned, and his mouth was freed.

Life rushed back into his lungs, and Makoto thought he would die from the ache of being alive.

 

Gentle lips against his bruised neck.

Sharp teeth worrying at his swelling nipples.

A mouth around his cock.

Still in darkness, his hands tied, Makoto helplessly surrendered to the pleasure.

 

Just as Makoto thought he would faint from desire, the rope binding him slackened and fell.

The blindfold was lifted and even the dim glare of a single lamp felt brighter than the midday sun.

 

The man with teal eyes was next to him.

Smiling.

Such a beautiful, gentle smile.

 

Tears blurred Makoto’s vision as he looked at the silent man.

He wanted to know why the promise of death was left unfulfilled.

He wanted…

What did he want?

 

“Here, some water.” Sousuke brought a cup of lukewarm water to Makoto’s lips, helping him lift his head.

Through dulled senses, and a haze of after-pleasure, Makoto finally heard the voice he had longed for.

He could barely speak.

And then he was lost to another kiss.

But it didn’t feel right.

Makoto pushed his lover away.

He could see worry in the teal eyes, and uncertainty too.

 

“Your name. I want to know your name.”

 A smile. Gentler than before.

“Sousuke. My name is Sousuke. I apologize for not introducing myself, Makoto. For leaving you.”

 

Straddling Sousuke, pinned against his chest, Makoto whimpered and cried out with pleasure.

Sousuke thrust inside him, kissing his neck, leaving marks.

They came together, sighing out each other’s names.

 

************

 

 

Morning came, and with it a truce between the two warring cities.

The sun found Makoto in Sousuke’s embrace.

His body draped all over Sousuke’s.

Spent with passion, heavy with first love, the two boys slept soundly.

 

When they awaken, they would not speak of the past.

Maybe when evening fell, Makoto would sing for Sousuke once more.

And in late summer, under the light of the harvest moon, they would sail away to the South, where the sun is warm, and life can begin anew.

 

 

 


End file.
